The other night I woke up at four in the morning to compulsively check the various places I’ve submitted work, to think about writing, and to worry. This is nothing new. But then I realized something else, and the night’s worry took on a new pall of dread and sober understanding. I realized that even if I published everything I’ve sent out, that even if I succeed, that this is not a job and never will be and there is never any money.
There is no money to be made in this business. Just forget about the money because it’s not there. You have to accept that your art is free. It costs you everything, of course. You do it at the sacrifice of other things and it bleeds out of you and feels miserable before and after, but for others it doesn’t cost anything to read and this is just a mother fucking fact of life.
There might be a little bit of money but that only confuses the issue. Maybe you’ll sell a story for a hundred bucks or something, but how long did you work on it, 50 hours? More? That’s like two dollars an hour. They pay Vietnamese children more than that. Maybe you’ll win a contest or get a fellowship, but that’s not money, not really. You’re a slave to the art and that’s that.
Don’t ever think you’re going to make money.
If checks start coming in the mail, you better be surprised. If you were expecting that to happen then you probably wrote an Airport Novel that sucks and you are part of the problem. Real art doesn’t make money. Writing will never make you any money.
I don’t mean to be such a downer. I talk to you out of love. I love writing so much. What I’m saying is fuck it if it doesn’t love you back.
There’s a freedom in knowing you’ll never amount to anything. Struggling rules. Just find money lying on the ground. Charm people into giving you money. Sell your blood. Get a job. There are things you can do. Build fences, teach, tutor. Leech off of your fellow writer’s sad ambition. Don’t feel bad; we’re all just trying to survive.
Face that you are doomed and swim along anyway because you love this lifestyle and you can’t imagine living any other way. In the meantime pray for some other kind of economy, where words can buy goods and services. And keep writing.
Further reading:
“The rest of the money, what there was of it, went to the lawyers.”
“Where the Money Went” – by Kevin Canty
“There was never enough money.”
“The Rocking Horse Winner” – by D.H. Lawrence
“We’re going to make lots of money together. Making lots of money – it’s not that hard, you know. It’s overestimated. Making lots of money is a breeze. You watch.”
Money – by Martin Amis
And finally, this:
“Everybody needs money. That’s why they call it money.” – David Mamet, from Heist. If you don't think that's funny, you're an asshole.
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MOLLY LAICH lives and writes in Missoula where she is completing an MFA at The University of Montana. She also teaches, walks dogs, and rides a bike.
